Let me make one thing clear before we start:
I don’t do mornings. 
I endure them. 
Like a cockroach in a microwave. Twitchy. Unkillable. Full of rage.

And today? Today’s already circling the drain because I woke up late, stepped on my charger cable, and my hair is doing that thing where half of it sticks up like I got electrocuted in my sleep. Which—ironic, yes. Still not funny.

But what really seals my descent into madness is that I walk into the bathroom and she’s already there. Brushing her teeth. In my sink. Using my toothpaste.

“Oh, that’s fine,” I mumble, voice still crusty from sleep. “Yeah, no, just help yourself, princess. Take my toothpaste. My soul. My will to live.”

She meets my glare in the mirror and shrugs. Not even sorry.

So I squeeze my way in beside her, knocking elbows and bumping hips while we both try to pretend this isn’t the dumbest shared morning routine since... ever.

“You always brush like you’re attacking your molars with vengeance,” I mutter, watching foam fly in the mirror. “You got beef with your teeth or something?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, I’m sorry—do you need to gargle loud enough to summon ancient sea spirits, or is that just for flair?”

She spits. I trip over her towel. 
Cue the wet sock.

“God damn it—” 
I slap my palm to the wall like I’m in a dramatic hospital scene and whisper, “Not like this.”

She snickers. Snickers. Like this is funny to her.

I grab my comb, drop it again, give it the middle finger, and then glare at the mirror like it personally insulted my bloodline. “Look at this hair. I look like a fried broomstick. A disappointed broomstick.”

“You look fine,” she says, and pats my hair. PAT. Like I’m a dog.

“You touch my head again and I will taser your cereal.”

She grins. I try not to combust.

We wrestle over the sink one more time before she tosses on her hoodie and mutters a sleepy, “Thanks for letting me go first, Sparks.”

And I— 
I malfunction.

Just—bzzt —full shutdown. There go my synapses. Bye, dignity.

“…Yeah. Whatever. Don’t get used to it.”

She grabs her water bottle, still yawning, and leaves the bathroom like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just destroy me with one word in a voice that sounded like sun-warmed cotton.

I look in the mirror.

“Pathetic,” I whisper to myself. “You’re whipped. You’ve got toothpaste on your chin and she called you ‘Sparks’ and now your brain’s in airplane mode.”

I wipe my face, snatch my hoodie, and stomp after her.

“Wait up! You better fake a sprained ankle during warmups or I swear to everything, I’ll ‘accidentally’ short out the treadmill.”

She just waves me off.

And I, still in one sock, still wildly in love, still determined to win a nonexistent bathroom war, follow her to training like the disaster I am.